Two Poems by Bianca Stone

Turn of the Century

At the turn of the century aviation went wild.In the human psyche we wentlike Daedalusto beat the heads of seagulls against a walland pluck their magical bodiesso that we might delicately glue and sewsomething to get us off the island.All those flying machines that crashed off of precipiceslike Wile E. Coyote, super genius—down,down into a white puff of smoke!And how terribly beautifulthat art can kill. That death, even, is wrapped up,always, in art's existence.As a child when I touched a butterfly or a mothI thought the powder that came off on my fingerswas what made them fly.So I was running off the porch roof withsilver dust like confectionary sugar on my fingers—but Fuck You the sky saidspinning around my head, my skull enlightened as a kitten on the big screen. It's so easy, almost too easy to fall. It's hardto be patient. To make somethingwith your hands that will save your life.That will waltz with death.

Death Theory

When people die we can finally love themhow we want to love them.Like how when our dog runs awaywe realize how every day we got upin the freezing darkness to let it outinto the front yard. It wasn't much.But we remember the shiveringand the steam rising from the ground.

When people die their odor lingersonly for a week or two in our hair. But thenwe get out of bed with deathand leave silently before death wakes up.Light speed is what our hearts move at.Backward in time. At a crushing, impossible speed.What I mean is, we can love them uninhibitedby their shortcomings and, possibly,their brutality. Love them how we wishwe had. But still this is going to mean we're carrying a sack of bones and bedclothesaround on our backs. This means we are all cheap peddlers of sorrow.